Quotes About Experience

My mother enjoyed old age, and because of her I've begun to enjoy parts of it too. So far I've had it good and am crumbling nicely.

During the Second World War, evacuated to non-Jewish households, I encountered Christianity at home and in school.

To my surprise, my 70s are nicer than my 60s and my 60s than my 50s, and I wouldn't wish my teens and 20s on my enemies.

I travel around the world, experiencing every language, every religion... some places where there's just no reason to smile, because their lives are so difficult.

We'd been assured it wouldn't be painful, though she might experience 'discomfort,' a term beloved of the medical profession that seems to be a synonym for agony that isn't yours.

Not that happiness is dull. Only that it doesn't tell well. And of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story.

I am a bundle of other people's histories, a creature of circumstance.

I was reminded of the time I got a free upgrade to first class, where I sat right next to Sean Connery. Tongue-tied, I couldn't think of a thing to say besides, "You're Sean Connery," of which presumably he was aware.

So when I said I'd miss him, I meant I would miss what we had not experienced, and I don't know what that's called: nostalgia for what didn't happen.

I am confessedly and unashamedly almost fifty years old and never lie about my age because I want credit for every damned year.

Accordingly, the one respect in which I depart from my younger self is that I now regard those people who have little or no story to tell themselves as terribly fortunate.

Not that happiness is dull. Only that it doesn't tell well. And one of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story.

And one of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story.

Oh, you knew exactly what I meant. Not that happiness is dull. Only that it doesn't tell well. And one of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story.

I can't imagine that I'm supposed to get over it , like hopping a low stone wall; if Thursday was a barrier of some kind, it was made of razor wire, which I did not bound over but thrash through, leaving me in flayed pieces and on the other side of something only in a temporal sense.

To a man and woman, all of her elderly patients had been surprised to be old - which Avery privately regarded as a serious failure to pay attention.

However intrigued by a "turn of the page," I was mortified by the prospect of becoming hopelessly trapped in someone else's story.

Not that happiness is dull. Only that it doesn't tell well. And one of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story. I should know; I am in flight from my story every day, and it dogs me like a faithful stray. Accordingly, the one respect in which I depart from my younger self is that I now regard those people who have little or no story to tell themselves as terribly fortunate.

Later these thoughts would come back to haunt me, though I could not have anticipated that your compulsion to manhandle your unruly, misshapen experience into a tidy box, like someone trying to cram a wild tangle of driftwood into a hard-shell Samsonite suitcase, as well as this sincere confusion of the is with the ought to be—your heartrending tendency to mistake what you actually had for what you desperately wanted—would produce such devastating consequences.

Just because you learn something in adulthood doesn't mean it's fake.

Se vio desconfiando instintivamente de las personas con las que contactaba y que más se deshacían en ayes y se ofrecían a ayudar «en todo lo que pudieran» sin especificar nunca en qué ni cuándo. La experiencia le decía que los que mejor expresaban sus sentimientos eran los menos aptos para hacerlo con algo que no fueran palabras.

Mourning the death of strangers is a blunted butter knife experience, bearing no resemblance to the slicing, machete-like bereavement of losing someone you know.

And one of our consuming diversions as we age is to recite, not only to others but to ourselves, our own story. I should know; I am in flight from my story every day, and it dogs me like a faithful stray. Accordingly, the one respect in which I depart from my younger self is that I now regard those people who have little or no story to tell themselves as terribly fortunate.

She had some appreciation for folks with a greed for sensation. Who were determined to "squeeze the orange" and press fresh experience from every day. But that way lay burnout. There were only so many experiences, really- a depressing discovery in itself., and surely you were better off trying to replicate the pleasing ones as often as possible.